Disclaimer: I own nothing.
John needs a job. He's already in debt with Sherlock, for crying out loud. So the result is Sarah. Locum, whatever. He needs the job. And having a cute boss can't hurt. He needs to get back to other things besides working.
Because Sherlock is not his Sherlock, and he can't keep fooling himself. He needs a date. Preferably yesterday. Though he'll have to find an excuse to keep his Name covered even while having sex, or everyone will think that he's cheating on Sherlock and despise him as a result. That won't do. Maybe he can say that his soulmate died and that seeing the blob of it breaks his heart every time? It's a bit underhanded, but what needs must.
So here he is, shooting down all her objections (she thinks the job will be too mundane? He'll need some mundane after dealing with Sherlock on a day-to-day basis). And when she asks if he can do anything else, Three Continents comes to the fore. "I learned the clarinet at school," and offers her a winning smile. She laughs softly – she's been smiling a lot through all this job interview – and replies that she's looking forward to it. Well, John is looking forward to her too. First date since he's back to England. (That is so happening sometime soon.) And a locked room to solve with Sherlock at the same time. His life is definitely looking up.
When he gets home, Sherlock welcomes him with, "I said, 'Could you pass me a pen?' "
Which he has apparently said an hour ago. When John was on his way to Sarah. For some reason, it doesn't surprises John at all. Sherlock is, after all, concentrating on their almost locked room case. John's presence – or the lack of it – is surely a meaningless detail faced with a murderer that can go through locked doors. He still sighs at his own forgettable nature. He tosses Sherlock a pen without looking. His aim has always been good.
He goes to examine the evidence wall Sherlock has put up then. He's not the one who'll figure it out – of course not – but it's interesting. He tries to make small talk in the meantime. And embarrasses himself with the most basic Freudian slip, "She's great." He doesn't mean to discuss Sarah just yet though – he won't brag about conquests, at least until after he has actually scored – and retires firmly under the neutral pronoun. "It," he insists. The job. Sherlock gives him an odd look, but then proceeds to show him an article. "Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for the police." Murdered journalist. Not what John expected.
"He's killed another one," Sherlock declares. And off they are. They – well, Sherlock at least surely – are needed at Scotland Yard.
Which – sadly – means they have to deal with Dimmock again. God but the man is thick! John can't believe what he's about to say, but since the man will deny what's happening and has the gall to be annoyed at them, he puts it into words. "Both men killed by someone who can...walk through solid walls."
Dimmock scowls, and when Sherlock asks him if he still believes the Van Coon case to be a suicide squirms uncomfortably, but won't reply. Sherlock won't let him squirm his way out of this, though. He sighs at the man's recalcitrant nature. Then the detective forces the inspector to admit that ballistic confirmed Van Coon's gun did not shoot him, and declares, "So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel." John has to fight down a giggle, and manages to only because Sherlock is absolutely right. When Sherlock requires five minutes in the second victim's flat, and Dimmock agrees to it, John cheers internally in victory.
It doesn't take him more than five minutes – actually less – to deduce that their murderer is, in Dimmock's words, Spiderman. Or at least a skilled climber. The inspector seems disbelieving still, and John fights the urge to remind him that whatever Sherlock says is indeed gospel. At least it should narrow their suspects considerably. Dimmock should be glad for it.
A moment later, they're back in a cab with a book belonging to the second victim and no Dimmock on their heels. It's just them again, and John shouldn't be that happy for it. They go to West Kensington Library to check a book their new victim borrowed. There happens something that leaves John reeling, and trying to remind himself furiously that Sherlock is not his Sherlock. His heart still beats wildly when he finds more symbols like in the bank and Sherlock, in his enthusiasm, rewards him by lightly kissing his right ear. It does not mean anything. Anything at all.
In fact, they're back to analysing the case, the odd bit of affection completely disregarded – Sherlock didn't justify himself for it. Maybe it's not odd for him. He might be like the Doctor, rather...affectionate in the face of cleverness. John does his best to concentrate on the case, and if he talks rather more softly than he normally would it's not because he's feeling rather emotional himself. ' Course not. (Not his Sherlock, he reminds himself briskly once again.)
Then they're off again, because, odd as that sounds, Sherlock needs advice (never thought he'd see the day the sleuth admitted that). On painting. So going to the National Gallery might seem a sound idea. Only they aren't going there, but at the back.
His consultant his one...writer, it's that how the people vandalizing places with their "art" are called? Only he can't give them anything about the symbols, and the paint is hardly going to get them the climbing killer. John can't help but be disappointed, and he's sure Sherlock is too. Sure, Raz promised he'll look into it, but there's no saying he'll get them anything.
Well, to be honest, he does get John something. A bloody ASBO, that is. Because of course when the policemen arrive the two great sods run for it like missiles, leaving John to deal with them (and with the bloody spray can he was holding for Raz in hand, too!). He's not used to running from police. Being told to would have been nice. Because let me tell you, Raz's art (the pig-snouted policeman) didn't amuse the officer much.
So, when he gets home, he's pretty incensed (and for once, he really doesn't have the frisson of the Right Name – even if it's the wrong person). He rants, even knowing Raz won't show up to claim the art or the ASBO – ' course not. All he wants is a bit of sympathy. But of course he doesn't get that. Sherlock has all the empathy of a brick wall, the doctor should know. John is pretty sure that he's being tuned out. Because if Sherlock had heard a word, he wouldn't be sending John back to the bloody Yard.
On another note, the sleuth might get a freak or some other insult from our esteemed police force (Raz wasn't all that wrong) so John resigns himself to it. The case must be solved before more people get killed by Marvel's Venom. He's decided that his opening line at the Yard will be, "Missed you already."
Nobody laughs at his quip, but at least Dimmock is actually complacent this time. John is still angry at Sherlock, so when the inspector calls the sleuth an arrogant sod, John's only comment is, "Well, that was mild!" instead of trying to defend his friend. Dimmock gives easily up the evidence John wants, though. The inspector has learned the hard way not to ever discuss Sherlock's words. Lukis' – their second victim's diary is in John's hands, and he can't contain the shiver of excitement. He is now closer to solving the case. Wherever will the clues bring him? He is so following this on his own, instead of bringing it faithfully back to Sherlock. The annoying sleuth could follow his own clues (he was after Van Coon's trail, after all).
They literally bump into each other, following their respective trails, John's nose so deep in Lukis' diary that he doesn't notice the lanky git. And Sherlock starts talking a mile a minute again. John's anger has waned, substituted by the happy excitement of the chase, and he shows his friend the chinese shop Lukis' went to, wondering for a breathless moment if Sherlock will recompense him for the new data like earlier. No kiss this time, so John pretends he wasn't hoping for it (was he hoping for it? Not-his-Sherlock! He's fucked up!) and leads them into the shop.
A moment later, he's trying to avoid being forced to buy a lucky cat. The thing is ridiculous. And what does it mean, "your wife, she will like!" ? Does John gives off the vibe of a married man? He's never going to – he'll have to be sneaky enough to snatch some dates, until Sherlock disappears from his life (which he hopes will never happen, to be honest) – he wouldn't be able to lie to a wife, and nobody will stay through the necessary explanations. (Yes, it does say Sherlock. No, it's really not him. I love you, will you have me? No, I'm not giving up cases...Who would stand that?)
Lucky cat is lucky, though, because while he's perusing the merchandise John finds the symbols again (Sherlock doesn't kiss him again – of course, they're in public. And John doesn't even want him to. ) The shop keeper explains, and Sherlock leaves the place with a spring in his step and grinning like a loon. Chinese numbers! 15,1. This is the threat who terrified both Van Coon and Lukis. Code, of course, but codes can be cracked. Sherlock will, John has no doubts. Now they know their criminal is a Chinese climber. There can't be that many in London! They're close to the solution. John is so very happy. For a moment, being photographed twice in a day by a Chinese-looking tourist (she looks exactly the same, but she's probably not) spooks John, mind full of Chinese criminals, a bit, but she disappears suddenly and he dismisses it. No need to get paranoid. Need to keep up with Sherlock and ensure he doesn't try to engage a murderer alone (again).
They end up staking out the Lucky Cat shop, once again in a restaurant. At least nobody thinks it's a date this time. They're left in peace, to enjoy the meal and discuss the case. Sherlock has already worked it all out. Both victims were smugglers and one stole something, hence why while in doubt the Triad (the Chinese mafia is the Triad, right?) offed them both, just to be sure. It's so nice, this. They should do it more often. ...Maybe trying to end one meal at the chosen restaurant, though. A moment later, Sherlock is leaving with a random question about rain, of all things. John can only pay up and regret leaving his plate full. They cook rather well here – he'll have to remember that. But, you know – wouldn't want to lose Sherlock's trail. Chances are that he'd try to get himself killed.
Sherlock breaks in someone's house – again. And once again, John can't follow and he's left ringing the bell. "Do you think maybe you could let me in this time?" he calls.
Apparently not. John insists, shouting through the letterbox, "Can you not keep doing this, please?" He doesn't want to be excluded unless there's a dead body for him to examine. He might not be able to deduce things like Sherlock, but he's found clues twice already, and he could continue if only Sherlock let him in.
The sleuth answers something, but John doesn't get it. Figures that Sherlock wouldn't even bother making himself heard. It's not like he's looking forward to his input. It's beyond frustrating. It makes John feel particularly useless. He gives up on communicating too, admitting the ugly truth. "I'm wasting my breath." And yet, he calls again, "Any time you want to include me."
His frustrated anger at being deemed useless (while Sherlock is having all sorts of fun snooping around without him, undoubtedly,) makes him growl, "No, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no-one else can compete with my massive intellect!"
He's being sarcastic but the problem is that it's true. That's why the sleuth doesn't care for his company. Why he's forever left behind. The detective doesn't need him. John needs him. A bit. He feels alive when he's with Sherlock – simple as that. And he doesn't want the sleuth to decide that rather than excluding him at times it's more practical not to involve him at all. He wants the cases. He wants the company. He wants everything (what?).
When finally Sherlock opens the door, John glares at him. They (they? Really?) are searching for the house's owner, starting with the National Antiquities Museum. Or so the detective says. Well, croaks. "Are you getting a cold?" John queries. The sleuth claims to be fine, of course, but John vows to check his throat later on. His friend is still coughing. He isn't coming down with something, is he? And why is John even worrying about him? The detective surely doesn't deserve it. He doesn't care about John, and it would be only right to reciprocate him. Yet, John can't help it. He does care about Sherlock. Now, off to the museum on the sleuth's wake. (As always).
It's becoming dangerous. Sherlock would have noticed the assassin still inside the house from the start if he wasn't so distracted. It's since Teen Sherlock has – once again, and deplorably – hijacked the transport and brushed a kiss against John's ear (thank God John hasn't mentioned it yet) that the fleeting sensation is stuck on repeat inside his head at random times. He'll be deducing, and then feel it all over again. His minds rebelliously derails all on its own, and it's almost costed him his life. Dead because he was thinking about a kiss with a homonym. It doesn't get much more shameful than this. He needs to concentrate, damn it!
Now, Soo Lin Yao. He interrogates the besotted idiot who left her that message. Another besotted idiot, that is, beside himself. (He hopes he's not as bad as this youngling. The woman might – theoretically – have disappeared to run from him, and her involvement with the smuggling ring be a secondary job. John might move out if Teen Sherlock doesn't behave. Scary line of thought.) Finding the usual threat graffitied is actually a comfort. They're still on the right track.
They need to find Soo Lin Yao. "If she's still alive," John points out. Really, no need to be so negative. Before he can reproach him – luckily for them – his acquaintance (not friend, of course – he has no friends, since John denied it) Raz comes up to them outside the museum, with beautiful news. He's found something. Just what they need.
John's grumbling something about his ASBO still. As if Raz would ever consider willingly dealing with policemen – this is not the moment to worry about it; this is when they (hopefully) solve the case. "Forget about your court date," Sherlock orders to his flatmate. Sherlock is living proof that being distracted on a case will do you no good. It wouldn't do for John to get hurt too (though Raz shouldn't be bringing them to face killers, but one never knows – someone might be there graffiting or reading said coded messages).
Raz brings them to the South Bank skate park. Which is genius from their smuggling ring, as no one will notice graffiti there. There are so many – the very same message from the criminals Raz found (same paint, same old Chinese numerals) are already partially painted over. There must be more, though, so they split to look for evidence. He'd rather they be together still, but it's more practical. Case takes precedence. He can't allow himself to behave idiotically (John would question his behaviour).
He's examining a parked rail freight container, when John comes over to him claiming he's found the evidence, and scolding him for not answering his phone. (He prefers to text, it's almost the first thing Sherlock said in his presence – did John delete that? How inconvenient.)
They run to study that, blood singing ecstatically in Sherlock's veins (and John's too, surely – shouldn't it?). When they are at the rails, though, Sherlock should be utterly disappointed. Their evidence is already lost. Painted over entirely. (He doesn't doubt that there were symbols – John wouldn't joke with him when there are two victims already. And he wouldn't be so baffled or sad about it.)
"It was here ten minutes ago!" his flatmate protests against fate.
"Somebody doesn't want me to see it," the sleuth deduces. And God help him, because instead of frustrated he's gleeful. He has an excuse to touch his...flatmate, and Teen Sherlock is jubilant about it (NOT his John, when will the kid ever understand that?). He's holding John's head in both hands, and he shouldn't like it.
John doesn't like it, protesting, but the detective shushes him up. He doesn't want to lose the contact. That it'll help John to remember is just bonus. He hopes John will close his eyes to concentrate – not see how invested in him Sherlock is. (He'll be mocked; yelled at.) The sleuth moves his hands to John's upper arms. Not skin on skin anymore (that might be distracting more than helpful – but Teen Sherlock whines immediately at the change). He spins them around, staring at John as he tries to penetrate into his mind, trying to make him remember.
John is sure he has it all memorized. Sherlock doubts it. His not-friend is mostly average, and the average person's visual memory is far from perfect.
...John took a photo. Great thinking on his part. He should be commended. Sherlock doesn't. His teen self is moping because he has no excuse to touch him anymore, and he's embarrassed because he talked over John and didn't let the doctor reveal the proof before. What if John reads him, reads how glad he was to touch him seconds ago? Will he be uncomfortable with it? Disgusted by it? Oh God. He must stop worrying over John. Start analysing the bloody case. He finally has a wealth of evidence. Forget John! (That's not going to be easy. At all.)
They're back home, and if he doesn't manage to forget his flatmate altogether, he can at least concentrate on what's in front of him. Symbols over symbols over symbols. All numbers. Couple of numbers, to be exact.
John is less than helpful, clearly too sleepy to think. Which is very odd. They are closer to cracking the murderer/smugglers' code. Why isn't John excited over it? (Though he's somewhat cute all knackered like this – oh stop it Sherlock! Decoding now. Not glancing at your flatmate. Or thinking about him. Or anything about him.)
He asks himself why the smugglers would write on that wall instead of knowing it outright – they've lost something precious, of course they'd want to get it back – and if that isn't an obvious sign that he should not let himself be taken by anything but the case what else is it?
It appears that the code is impossible to crack though, not without Soo Lin Yao. This is no easy substituting number for letters, which he would read in a jiffy.
And John reacts to the news with a, "Oh, good!". He's practically sleeping upright, but he still follows without question. It warms Sherlock's (non-existent) heart. Dear John. (But not friend John.)
Whether it be the cold air outside, or the prospect of finding a missing person (preferably before their murderer), John is more awake when they reach the museum again. Though the suitor of Soo Lin is less than helpful, insisting that he has no idea where she might be – that she's probably far away – even if both John and he explain to him that locating her might be essential to save her life. The boy is not only young and an obviously importune suitor (woe be anyone who got saddled with him as his/her soulmate), but also a blind idiot. If Soo Lin is thousands miles away, who cared for these teapots? Not the idiot, or he'd have said.
Later still, they're ambushing one Soo Lin Yao in the process of taking care of these ridiculously old (and apparently precious) teapots. Which Sherlock saves by mere reflex because startling already threatened people is not as good an idea as he'd thought. He pays due homage, calling her clever for escaping the killer until now. She is. Then starts to milk her for information.
She's very forward. Their killer is called the Spider (Zhi Zhu). He works for the Tong of the Black Lotus (finally their smugglers have got a name). The very same organisation she used to work for. Being young and hungry is never easy. Being young and hungry and having someone to care for... What would Mycroft have done in the same position? (Probably found a way to blackmail someone, to be fair.)
It surprises him that she's refused to help the smugglers now – help her own brother. Especially when she must have known what their reaction would be. This young woman has more spine than most people Sherlock knows. He admires her. She's further betraying them, telling Sherlock how the code is based upon a book (clever; unless one finds the book, the numbers will remain utterly meaningless).
Then suddenly the lights go out, their agile murderer finally there. Sherlock runs toward the danger. He can face their man. He can apprehend him.
...He'll never forgive himself. Not catching the murderer, fine. Being sidestepped, can happen. But having a murderer kill his victim practically in his presence...He shouldn't have run after him. He should have protected Soo Lin. He left John to defend Soo Lin; his brave soldier. Why, oh why did John think Sherlock needed more protection than the actual victim of many threats?...No, that's not John's fault. That's his fault. He miscalculated, and a great woman is dead as a result. This death is on him as much as on the Spider. (Hating her, sure; but how can you kill your own sister?)
They have to face Dimmock, after that. Who does his best to ignore them. John's incensed, and very awake as a result. "How many murders is it gonna take before you start believing that this maniac's out there?" he queries. "A young girl was gunned down tonight. That's three victims in three days. You're supposed to be finding him."
Well, Dimmock is not the only one who is supposed to be solving this case and failing spectacularly at that. Sherlock takes the words as directed at himself and fights the urge to apologise. Apologising would be meaningless. It won't bring Soo Lin Yao back. It won't do anything.
Instead, he recaps the new data for the inspector. He'll need to be in the loop to investigate. (He's not being disparaging, he maintains, when he says how the Black Lotus has been working right under the police's nose. Just stating facts.) Distrustful, Dimmock asks for more evidence of their theories. That's no problem.
Though he despises having to flirt to get what he needs. If people would only see helping him make his point as the priority it should be, he would not have to make small talk with Molly. Or tell her the new style of her hair suits her better.
Molly really should not have impure thoughts about him. He's clearly not her soulmate, not even a homonym – she'd have mentioned it ages ago if she bore his name – and he's doing her a favour by not agreeing to her awkward openings. He's not an easy man to handle. He would break her heart in a week without even meaning to. He hopes that she finds her own soulmate soon. That should heal her from her crush. Though how is he going to obtain favours from her then? (He shouldn't have to worry about it.)
Seconds later, and his theory is proved. Just as Soo Lin Yao assured them, every smuggler has a black lotus tattoo on the soles of their feet. What are the chances that two men of different backgrounds would opt for the same, odd tattoo – and in such a position that it'd be hidden all the time? Tattoos are mostly made to be shown, either to all or just to one's partner in the case of more intimately-placed tattoo. Who would get to see a tattoo on the sole of one's foot? A fetishist?
Dimmock has to give up and admit that, as always, Sherlock is right. He's baffled by the sleuth's request for all the victims' books to be sent to 221B, though. He complies, of course. But it's easier than telling him and leaving the police to try to determine which book is used for the code. No, it's definitely better doing things this way and then offering him the solution, as he's used to do.
John feels that they're no closer to finding their ring of smugglers with a taste for murder than at the start of this case, and says as much. Sherlock corrects him quickly. They know so much now (after Soo Lin's help – he owes it to her to solve this case; Sherlock doesn't even remember Sebastian's involvement anymore). If the Black Lotus needed Soo Lin, it means they're dealing in antiquities.
Inspired, since he can't solve the code until the books arrive, he opens a web page to check art auctions. Chinese artefacts, anonymous vendor...and lo and behold, each one coincides with a trip by either Lukis or Van Coon. If one of the two mules stole something, the murderers make sense. (This is too easy. That's the only reason he's caught up into John's closeness, his flatmate reading over his shoulder. Not his John, goddamnit. This means nothing. He needs to get his stupid, rebellious heartbeat under control before doctor Watson notices.)
Finally the book arrive, and for once Dimmock is asking if he can 'assist' them. Why would he need assistance? He's got John for that. Now it all boils down to checking – book after book. When he finds a one-word threat as the first word of page fifteen, he'll know that he has the right book and can translate everything else. And once they break the code, and can read their messages they'll be so much closer to catching them.
Sherlock doesn't expect John to stay the whole night. He's not asking him to. His flatmate could go to sleep and the detective would barely notice, deep in his investigation. But John stays, determined to help. To see this through. It isn't just convenient for Sherlock, or helpful. It's something he's never had (not even Victor would fake this sort of companionship for him) and God, but he loves it. Having someone to share cases with makes him happy. John makes him happy. And it won't last. Obviously.